


the tip of a glass (the start of you and me)

by deceptivelycomplex3925



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/F, Wanda’s POV because reasons, listen idk how to tag it’s been too long, they have some drinks and flirt???
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-15 17:35:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29936979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deceptivelycomplex3925/pseuds/deceptivelycomplex3925
Summary: Wanda presses her lips together to keep from chuckling at each set of exasperated eye rolls and annoyance and, entirely by accident, lets her gaze linger on Nat a little too long - long enough for Nat’s eyes to catch and hold her own, her lips parting when Nat doesn’t look away, when Nat brings her beer bottle up to her lips and takes a long, slow drag from it, eyes steady on Wanda’s.or: wanda and nat keep making eyes at each other all night and then have some ~add a little spice~ flirting in the kitchen.
Relationships: Wanda Maximoff/Natasha Romanov
Comments: 9
Kudos: 93





	the tip of a glass (the start of you and me)

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, hi! It’s me. I haven’t written a fic in literal YEARS (I’m so sorry to any of my intensely loyal OUAT readers who are still here - I love you all so much) and this is my first fic for this ship ever but listen, WandaVision changed me as a sapphic human and I needed Wanda with more women (the best one being Nat, obvi) so this happened. 
> 
> I literally do not care enough about anything except for a few women in the Marvel universe to fact check or make anything about the Avengers compound accurate (yes, I’ve seen the movies. No, I still don’t care enough). I wrote it how I see it in my head and you are more than welcome to do the same and ignore my own layout of the building. Oh, and the timeline is fuzzy but it’s post-Ultron with Wanda still wearing copious amounts of rings and definitely ordering from Hot Topic on the daily. 
> 
> I wasn’t going to post this because it’s just a scene between them and it was originally just for me and a few of my friends but I’m drunk and it’s officially my birthday so that gives me the right to do whatever I want. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy this mess? And I also hope you have a fantastic day because you, dear reader, are wonderful and deserve all the happy and good things.

Wanda hangs back in the kitchen, hip pressed up against the island as she watches the boys (her mind refusing to refer to them as men after seeing them fight over a plate of bacon every morning), a nearly full glass of the whiskey Tony had thrust into her hand cradled against her sternum. They’re all huddled around the glass table nestled between the couches, a card game unfolding.

Her eyes trail over each of their expressions, biting down on a smirk when she realizes she could dip into their minds and ruin the game for them in one fell swoop if she decided she felt like it. She wouldn’t, not now. She wouldn’t betray their trust, invade their privacy like that. Never again. But she’d be lying if she told herself the knowledge wasn’t fun to entertain. 

Her gaze settles on Nat perched near the end of one of the couches, pressed up against Bruce, his forearm brushing against the dark wash denim of her jeans over her thigh, taking a swig of her beer as she taps one of his cards nonchalantly. (She’s barefoot, her other leg swinging back and forth over the arm of the couch. Wanda certainly hasn’t been _staring._ )

A familiar, possessive heat curls inside of her at the sight - her so close to Bruce, _allowing_ the touch - swirling in her belly and warming the skin at the back of her neck, the tips of her fingers. Her vision tints just that little bit crimson and she tries to cool it, drown it, with a healthy swallow from her glass and instantly regrets it as soon as the alcohol hits the back of her throat. 

She watches Bruce’s brow pull together through the sting of it. Watches him give Nat a sidelong glance, worrying at the inside of his mouth, hesitating before laying the card down. There’s an immediate uproar and cacophony of sound, every other Avenger tossing their handful of cards down onto the table in annoyance, some jumping up from their positions on the couch. Sam throws his entire hand at Bruce’s head. He’s sheepish and apologetic, throwing his hands up in surrender, but also quietly smug and a part of Wanda longs to send a spark of red energy through him, or maybe just at his feet, to wipe the expression from his unshaved face. Tony, nursing his own whiskey, just points a finger at him, ice jostling around in the glass. 

“Banner, lose the sidepiece or let her play for you. I’m tired of her smirking at me from over your shoulder.” 

Nat quirks a dark brow. “Oh, come on, fellas. You know getting your asses handed to you by a woman directly would be too much for your fragile man egos to take.” She pins Tony with that aforementioned, signature smirk, tipping her bottle in mock salute. “Especially yours, lover boy.” 

Steve snorts into his glass of water. Tony just downs his drink. And Thor grabs a mug half full of beer sitting dangerously close to the edge of the table, amber liquid sloshing over the sides, as he brings it up to chug. His words are thick when he swallows. When he bellows, “Maybe for the actual _men_ here, but as a - ”

“God, _yes_ , we know.” Everyone around the table finishes in unison for him. 

“Give it a rest,” Rhodey laments, wiping at the spilled beer with a hand towel and a glare. Wanda presses her lips together to keep from chuckling at each set of exasperated eye rolls and annoyance and, entirely by accident, lets her gaze linger on Nat a little too long - long enough for Nat’s eyes to catch and hold her own, her lips parting when Nat doesn’t look away, when Nat brings her beer bottle up to her lips and takes a long, slow drag from it, eyes steady on Wanda’s. She catches the beginnings of a smirk on deep red lips just as she feels someone step into the space to her right. 

“You know stalking is considered a crime in most countries,” says Vision, causing her to jump and break eye contact with the older woman as she jerks her head up to look at him. She hears Nat’s favorite reprimand of _always be aware of your surroundings, little witch_ in her head and pushes the thought away just as quickly as it’d come. She didn’t need the sound of _that_ particular nickname in her mind right now. 

His voice is even, his own gaze ahead, on the boys in the common room, expression open and kind, but she knows he’s teasing her, can see the undercurrent of amusement around his eyes. There’s just that little bit of an upturn to the corner of his mouth. He’s joined her because she’s been isolating herself again and he’s noticed. He always does. 

She studies him for a moment, willing her heartbeat to calm, before taking a small sip of her drink, grimacing, only slightly this time, at its taste. “Only most countries?” She was good at wry. Wry was an effective guise. 

He turns his head to catch her eyes as his smile grows, and she can’t help but return it, affection for him deep and winding suffusing her skin as she bumps her hip against his and gestures toward the group cheering on Thor and Tony who are now chugging two mugs of the beer that seems to keep magically appearing. 

“You’re not interested in beer chugging?” She asks with a mischievous lift of her brow. 

“I’d rather not test that impending malfunction, no.” He chuckles, eyes tracking to the far right of the room before he ducks his head a bit and lowers his voice. “Have you made any progress with Ms. Romanoff?”

Wanda feels her face flush and has to actively keep her eyes on Thor and Tony as she stills at the question, blinking rapidly. It takes her a few too many seconds to respond and Vision, sensing the tension in her body, saves her once again.

“She’s been staring all night as well, Wanda.”

The sentence is akin to a defibrillation inside her chest and she chews at the inside of her bottom lip just briefly, a nervous habit she’s yet to break herself of, eyes chancing a glance to the current subject of their conversation, feeling her heart give another stuttered jump when dark green eyes latch onto her own again. 

There’s a weight to the older woman’s gaze now. A headiness that tugs swift and low behind Wanda’s navel. Like a whisper, a challenge. A promise. Something inside of her stirs, the limbs of it pressing into the lining of her. It has a mouth full of need and Wanda swallows against the burn of it. The _scald_ of it. Something far more potent, far more permanent than any alcohol. There’s this sudden _urgency_ racing across her skin and she flexes her jaw against it. 

“Has she now?” She murmurs without meaning to, eyes still on Nat’s as she does. She hears the hoarseness in the syllables. Tilts her head a little at the notion of Nat staring at her just as much as she’s been staring right back. 

Did that mean her ever growing realization, her quickly-taking-a-very-defined-and-familiar-shape feelings weren’t one-sided? Was she a fool for entertaining this particular thought? 

And then she’s watching the older woman stand, noticing the empty bottle in her left hand as she makes her way toward the kitchen, Wanda’s heart picking up speed again. Body vibrating with anticipation. 

Vision’s made a silent and impressive exit by the time Nat’s just in front of her and Wanda inhales sharply, audibly, when Nat’s upper body brushes against hers as she steps past and around Wanda who’s now frozen in place from the deliberate touch. There was ample room in this kitchen. 

She hears the clink of glass against glass to her left and nearly gasps, mouth parting, when she feels light but firm pressure at the small of her back, fingers dancing along the waistband of her ripped onyx jeans - just the barest hint of nail that has Wanda’s lashes fluttering. She has to bite down on a very sudden and unbidden, _embarrassing,_ breathy moan. She barely succeeds. 

She’d taken off her army green jacket earlier, opting to rest it over the back of one of the dining room chairs, and sends up silent gratitude for the action. For the warmth of the room tonight. The thin cotton material of her white tank top. The boldness Nat embodies so well. The calm, cool confidence, the seduction injected into every minute shift of her body, her hands, her facial expressions. The fact that tonight, it’s aimed right at her. _For_ her. 

She feels heat near the shell of her right ear a second later, goosebumps traveling down her neck and arm at the proximity, the difference of the intent in it tonight - so different from Mentor Nat - and the light tickling of curled red hair just before the rasp of Nat’s voice caresses the air between them. Her fingers constrict around the glass still in her hand, the silver snake ring wrapped around her thumb biting a bit. “I never pegged you as a whiskey gal.”

Wanda, despite the complete upheaval of her composure, chuckles, a low gravel. She lifts the hand holding her glass, loosening her grip a little, rings adorning her fingers glinting in the warm glow of the kitchen lighting, and offers it over her shoulder. “I’m not. You’re more than welcome to finish it for me if you’d like.” 

The tips of warm, nimble (strong and capable) fingers wrap around her own as the older woman takes the glass from her - more deliberate touch, Wanda notes distantly - moving so she’s directly in front of her as she downs the rest of Wanda’s whiskey like a shot, eyes once again steady and unrelenting on her own. 

Nat gives her a soft, faint knowing smirk once she swallows and Wanda marvels at the lack of wince at the sharp burn she _knows_ the other woman has to be feeling. Or perhaps she isn’t. Perhaps she’s entirely numb to it by this point. Perhaps Wanda finds that oddly attractive. Perhaps Wanda finds _Nat_ attractive. 

Wanda is many things. Blind isn’t one of them. 

And then Nat tilts her head, her expression one of contemplation before she shrugs. “Mm. Not bad. I’ve had better.” 

Wanda’s smile is quick and conspiratorial, the subtle dig at Tony having anything less than the best making her lingering, unkillable bitterness toward the man sing a little. 

Nat sets the glass down on the island and Wanda notices the burgundy stain around the rim of it. A perfectly shaped imprint of her bottom lip. Nat’s refilling the glass, a clear liquid, very different from the ochre of before, when she looks up again. She’s had just enough alcohol to feel a constant, full-body flush, her mind, her filter, far looser than it should be around this woman. So she’s unable to resist blatantly staring, ogling really, at the older woman’s mouth. Unable to keep her mind from wandering. Wanting _. Needing._

So many weeks of it. Too many training sessions. Too much restraint. Too much control. 

_So much skin_ she’s seen and turned away from in the shared bathrooms of the training wing. 

Nat slides it to her, glass against granite. “Here. I think this might be more your style.” 

Wanda takes it, mentally shaking herself of the slurry of images her wandering thoughts had elicited, making sure to line up the stain of Nat’s lipstick as she lifts it to her mouth, continuing their game of held eye contact, tipping the glass and mimicking the older woman’s action a moment before. Taking it like a shot. 

It’s vodka. She knows immediately just before the liquid touches her tongue. From the smell of it. And Nat was right. This is more her style. 

She swallows without so much as a nose crinkle and nods her head in agreement, setting the glass down in front of her. Between them. She makes a show of licking her lips. Pressing them together. Savoring the faint taste of Nat’s lipstick on her tongue. And then mirrors her shrug and says, with all the swirling heat and want and _ache_ inside of her, gaze piercing, “Not bad. I’ve had better things in my mouth.” 

Nat’s reply is instantaneous - an arched brow the only visible sign that Wanda might have impressed her with her comment - eyes tipping down and back up again, watching Wanda’s mouth as she speaks, as she steps forward. Her voice drops an octave. “Have you now?” 

It settles low in Wanda’s belly. In that place still trembling from the way Nat’s been looking at her all night. That place that’s been yearning for this woman’s touch for _months._ Something different from the clean, surgical precision in their training lessons, lasting only as long as necessary. Something _meaningful_ , lingering. Borne of emotion not obligation. It’s desperate, this want inside of her, dripping like honey into the very blood in her veins. Sticking to every inch of her. It’s _consuming_ in a way she’s wholly unfamiliar with. Utterly ill-equipped to manage. 

It’s nearly verbatim what Wanda had let slip earlier to Vision and she wonders how much Nat hears. How much she’s possibly _heard._ She has a fleeting, bizarre moment of forgetting _she’s_ the one who can read minds. And then her breath catches as the distance between them shrinks. 

Nat’s eyes are on her parted mouth again when she says, “Do you mean the vodka or my lipstick?” Jade eyes flicker back up again as an unfairly playful and enthralling smirk pulls at the corner of the older woman’s full lips, Wanda caught between holding her gaze and watching her fingers circle around the rim of the empty glass. “Just for clarification.” 

Wanda’s own fingers twitch, her want so all-encompassing, her control an exhale away from snapping under the pressure of the tension between them. She wills her expression into stillness. Wanting to play this game with Nat just a little longer. Wanting to keep her here in her orbit and her orbit alone. To keep her glittering jade irises fixed on her. Thoughts on her. _Attention_ on her. 

“Definitely the vodka.” Her words are a little too breathy and the knuckles of her left hand flash white with their grip on the edge of the island she’s still leaned up against when Nat hooks an index finger over the waistband of her jeans, the back of her nail flush against the warmth of her skin just below her navel, and plucks the fabric like a string, tugging just enough to get Wanda’s feet clad in boots to scuffle against the tile. The touch is gone as quickly as it’d come, the smell of Nat’s shampoo permeating the air around her as the older woman leans into her space once more. Hair tickling Wanda’s cheek again. 

This whirlwind of a woman hell bent on testing her resolve tonight. Wanda grits her teeth, painfully aware of the fact that they’re not alone. That the boys would relentlessly tease them for months. That they’d ruin this moment with Nat for her if she broke. If she tangled her fingers in all that luscious red hair and yanked. 

“Oh, good,” Nat whispers, just shy of mocking. “For a second there I thought I was going to have to prove to you how wrong you are.” 

And then she’s stepping back, away, sauntering into the common room, a full bottle of beer in her hand as she takes a swig from it, joining in on another game of cards. 

“Alright, boys. Time to test those egos.” 

Wanda’s exhale is a shaky mess of a thing. Much like the rest of her. 


End file.
